


Miranda Vignettes #1

by wheel_pen



Series: Viridian Miranda [2]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fish out of Water, Gen, Imprinting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short, sometimes unfinished scenes in which Miranda interacts—or not—with other members of the Enterprise crew, including Trip, Phlox, and Archer. She makes sure Malcolm eats properly, chooses his off-duty wardrobe for him, attends to his injuries, and discovers she does not like caramel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miranda Vignettes #1

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Viridians appear human, but are actually aliens who imprint on other people (Viridian or otherwise) and form a bond with them. They also live their entire life cycle in about six Earth years.
> 
> 2\. In each series, a different character is a Viridian, who was raised by mean Klingons on an outpost. An Enterprise crewmember is captured by the Klingons and they inadvertently form a bond with the Viridian, who helps them escape. Then they return to rescue the Viridian and bring them aboard the Enterprise. The Viridian homeworld is contacted and the Enterprise crew learn the Viridian will most likely die if they are sent away. So they end up staying on the Enterprise, and the crewmember has to adjust.
> 
> 3\. The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

"Mind if I join ya?"

Reed glanced up from the data pad he was studying and quickly indicated the empty seat at the table. "Go ahead. I need to finish this report, though."

"Wouldn't expect anything less," Trip smirked, digging into his own meal. He regarded the third person at the table cautiously for a moment, then finally said, "Hello, Miranda."

The blond looked at him, hard, for just a second, then went back to her own data pad. Trip just rolled his eyes and resigned himself to a silent meal, but after a few moments Reed seemed to notice there had been a question asked but not answered.

"Say hello to Commander Tucker," he ordered Miranda, a bit sharply.

"Hello Commander Tucker," she choked out immediately, eyes downcast, sounding as if the words were dragged from her throat.

"Sorry," Reed offered his friend absently. "We're still working on manners."

"'S okay," Trip assured him, slightly taken aback. As good a friend as Malcolm was to him, the engineer had to admit that his 'training program' for Miranda was a little off-putting sometimes. It made Trip glad Malcolm had never gotten a pet. Or a child for that matter. Although Miranda of course wouldn't be complaining about it.

"Guess you're glad to be out of Sickbay, huh?" Trip tried, although making conversation with the girl was always a challenge.

"Yes," Miranda agreed after a long moment.

"Dr. Phlox is awful nice though, you gotta admit," Trip added, looking at her expectantly.

He could practically see the little wheels turning in her head, searching for a response that was mostly appropriate. "Dr. Phlox is an excellent physician, professionally-speaking, but his personal interactions make me a little uncomfortable sometimes."

Trip paused mid-bite to stare at her, and even Malcolm turned away from his data pad. "Guess you been workin' on the vocab, huh?" Trip guessed uncertainly after a moment.

"Miranda couldn't care less about Dr. Phlox," Malcolm corrected, narrowing his gaze at her. "She has, however, perfectly described _my_ feelings about him."

"Huh," Trip remarked. "You must have mentioned that to her sometime."

"No, I don't think so," Reed assured him, still watching Miranda. She looked nervous, as if she were afraid she'd done something wrong.

"You thinkin' she's some kind of mind-reader or what?" Trip probed. They still weren't really clear on the extent of Miranda's abilities, after all.

Malcolm looked at Miranda speculatively. "I suppose that might explain certain things," he finally allowed. "I'll have to test it in some manner later." Then he turned back to his data pad.

Trip frowned at his friend, wondering how he could be such an a-s sometimes. Okay, yeah, he himself had just been talking about Miranda as if she weren't there, which was kind of rude, but as near as Trip could tell Miranda didn't care a thing about what _he_ did, just Malcolm. Right now she looked terrified that she'd screwed up somehow, made Malcolm mad—her hands were twitching in that way that even Trip knew meant she wanted to touch Malcolm, pet him even.

Trip was about to say something when Reed slid his free hand casually off the table; a moment later Miranda stopped twitching and seemed to settle down and go back to her own reading. An "accidentally" dropped fork allowed him to peer briefly under the table and confirm that maybe Reed wasn't such an a-s after all, as Miranda was currently clutching his hand like a lifeline. Trip tried to conceal his smile as he sat back up to finish his meal—maybe there was hope for the two of them yet.

 

***

 

"Mind if I join ya?"

Reed glanced up from the data pad he was studying and quickly indicated the empty seat at the table. "Go ahead. I need to finish this report, though."

Trip just shook his head and sat down. "Don't you ever take a break, Malcolm?" he asked rhetorically. "And I thought _I_ was obsessed with my engines."

"Mmmm, just a minute," Reed muttered absently, gazing at his report.

Trip remained quiet for a few moments, watching his friend spoon what looked like oatmeal into his mouth in between reading. "What _is_ that stuff, anyway?" he persisted. "Chef's got ham with pineapple tonight, thought you'd be all over it."

"I will be," Reed assured him enigmatically.

A shadow fell across the table. A small shadow. Trip glanced up to see Miranda frowning at him for intruding upon her time with Malcolm. "Hey, there, Miranda," Trip greeted cheerfully.

She said nothing but merely looked at Reed's meal, continuing to frown. In her hands she held a plate of ham with pineapple. Slowly she sat down, a confused expression on her face.

Reed finally looked up. "How was target practice?" he asked her casually.

"Fine," she replied, still staring at his bowl of oatmeal with narrowed eyes.

"What was your score?"

Finally Miranda met his gaze, looking a little apprehensive. "Seventy-three percent." Malcolm raised his eyebrow a bit, and not in what Trip would call an approving way. "I'll practice more this afternoon," Miranda promised immediately. "It'll be higher."

"Good," he told her evenly. He indicated her plate. "Let's have it, then."

Reluctantly Miranda slid the plate of ham and pineapple in front of Reed, accepting his bland bowl of oatmeal instead. She nibbled at a spoonful distastefully, looking longingly at the little chunks of pineapple he consumed with an unusual amount of enjoyment.

"You're right," Malcolm commented to Trip. "This _is_ delicious."

"Thought Miranda usually ate what you ate," Trip mentioned pointedly.

" _When_ she scores above eighty-five percent, she does," Malcolm replied. Trip rolled his eyes. "She can't eat pineapple anyway. She just wants it because I do."

 

***

 

"You'll need to keep this area dry, Lieutenant, and change the bandage every day," Phlox informed him professionally.

Malcolm sighed, having heard exactly those instructions far more often than he would have predicted, even as an Armory Officer. "Going to be a little hard to reach, don't you think?" he pointed out. Since he couldn't even _see_ this latest wound, located about halfway down his back on the left side.

"Yes, I suppose so," Phlox conceded, in the tone of voice that made Malcolm wonder about the flexibility of Denobulans. "Well, you can come down here every day if you like. Unless you, ah, have someone who can assist you?"

"I can do it," Miranda offered immediately.

Phlox glanced at Reed for confirmation. "Sure," Malcolm shrugged, resigned. If it didn't work out, he could always come back to Sickbay. His home-away-from-home.

Instantly Miranda became focused. "Show me what to do," she ordered Phlox, who began demonstrating the procedure good-naturedly.

Malcolm could see the little recording device that was her mind processing every detail. She was actually quite intelligent, in the sense that she learned very quickly and could repeat what she'd learned precisely. He rarely had to show her something more than once or twice, whether it was a martial arts move or a diagnostic scan. On the other hand, she rarely seemed to really _think_ about anything; last week she had nearly discharged all the torpedoes from the ship simply because one of his ensigns had told her the wrong order to push the buttons in during the inventory. The mere fact that the computer kept flashing a warning at her didn't seem to deter her in the least. Reed smirked a little as he contemplated changing all the warning messages in the Armory to read, "Stop! Ask Malcolm!" Maybe _then_ she'd pay attention to them.

Phlox finished his explanation and made her repeat it back to him. She did so, word for word, motion for motion. Malcolm could tell the doctor didn't know if that was really a good thing, but it was good enough for him, and it was _his_ wound, after all. Besides, having something to do for him kept Miranda from hopping around nervously. He suspected he would shortly be hearing about whatever scene she'd caused when she realized he had been injured on the planet with Travis, while she was stuck on the ship.

"Well, I believe that's it, Lieutenant," Phlox decided, backing away so Malcolm could sit up. He did so gratefully, glad to not have his nose pressed in the polymer pillow of the biobed any longer. Miranda helped him pull his black vest and uniform top back on, even though really he could have done it on his own. He knew from the way she twitched she was dying to touch him, pet him really, for her own reassurance if nothing else. Surprisingly he had found that he didn't really mind it that much, but he'd given her _strict_ orders never to do it when anyone else was around. Goodness knew what the Captain would think if he saw it.

 

***

 

Lt. Reed felt uneasy. With his job as chief of security about _Enterprise_ , he was more than familiar with this feeling, but at the moment he couldn't find any particular _reason_ for it. There were no alien ships nearby, no anomalous phenomena, no guests, no malfunctions. Everything seemed to be operating as normal.

Yet he felt uneasy. He felt like there was someplace he was needed, someplace he should go. The Armory seemed a logical choice—perhaps he'd left something open or undone the last time he was down there? Unlikely, frankly, and anyway it wasn't as if the place were deserted. Surely one of his staff working there would have caught it by now.

The feeling grew the longer Malcolm sat on the Bridge tending to his instruments. As Alpha Shift leader he was supposed to spend his entire shift on the Bridge at least four days a week, unless there was a problem of course—he couldn't really run off to the Armory to check on some phantom thing he may or may not have done, not without getting the Captain involved in it. Besides which the electronic messages he sent to his second, Ensign Sundeep, all came back saying everything was fine. Reed tried to put the discomfort out of his mind and focus on what he was supposed to be doing at the moment.

" _Armory to Lt. Reed_ ," the comm suddenly squawked, drawing the attention of everyone on the quiet Bridge.

"Reed here," he answered immediately, looking pointedly at the wall plating above Hoshi's head and not at any fellow officers staring at him.

" _Um, sir, could you come down to the Armory for a minute, please?_ " There was more than a note of distress in Sundeep's voice, along with a muffled noise in the background that might have been yelling.

Reed knew immediately what was wrong and gritted his teeth. Briefly he made eye contact with Captain Archer, who nodded with an expression of concern, and replied, "On my way." Reed was dismayed but not surprised to see the Captain follow him into the lift, leaving the Bridge to T'Pol—Archer liked to see first-hand what was going on with his ship. And Reed was afraid he was about to make a very poor showing.

The source of the yelling was confirmed when Reed and Archer passed through the doors of the Armory. Miranda was throwing a fit—there was no other way to describe the incomprehensible screaming, arm-waving, and jumping. Ensign Bortrecht seemed to possibly be the object of her fury, as he was standing the closest to her and looking the most nervous, but the rest of the Armory staff were on alert as well, watching her warily. Not a one made a move to contain her—which was actually wise on their parts, as Miranda would have perceived it as a threat and proceeded to wipe the floor with them.

Archer paused a safe distance from the scene, assessing it, but Malcolm knew exactly what he was going to do and keep walking, his expression stony as he grabbed Miranda's arm and hauled her away from the others. He stopped in the middle of the open workspace, yanking her down to the deck plating, and knelt in front of her, trying to quiet her down. Archer watched, frowning, as Miranda clutched Reed's hand with both of hers, close to hyperventilating.

"What happened?" he asked Bortrecht quietly.

"I'm—not really sure, sir," the ensign admitted, shifting uncomfortably at being questioned by the Captain. "She had been working in Lt. Reed's office, and she came out and wanted to do something... I think she wanted me to open the weapons locker, sir."

Archer glanced at the sealed cabinet attached to the wall, containing a large stock of phase pistols and rifles. "Why?"

Bortrecht looked slightly embarrassed. "Um, I'm not really sure, sir," he replied. "She just kept saying Lt. Reed had said it was alright. Before I could contact him she just... flipped out."

Archer turned back to Reed and Miranda. Reed ran his Armory with military precision, and discipline; if it had been any of his regular personnel who threw a temper tantrum in the middle of their shift Archer wouldn't have been surprised if the first thing Reed had done was fling them to the ground. Right before cuffing them and throwing them into the Brig, only _after_ which would he start asking questions. But now he was kneeling quietly on the floor with Miranda, brushing her tangled hair back behind her ear, wiping the tears from her pretty face, talking to her in what Archer imagined were stern but soothing tones.

"Normally she's very quiet, sir," Bortrecht added, sounding apologetic. "She sticks pretty close to Lt. Reed and doesn't really say much."

Before Archer could reply to that Reed and Miranda were standing and walking back over to the intensely interested group of ensigns. A glare from Malcolm sent most of them scurrying back to their duties, shooting only brief glances back to the center of the action. Reed detached Miranda from him with only a small amount of awkwardness and gave her a small push forward, standing stiffly behind her with an unyielding gaze. Archer and Bortrecht stared at her uneasily.

Miranda sniffed, twisting her hands together, then finally mumbled something the others didn't catch. Reed cleared his throat pointedly behind her. She took a sudden deep breath and repeated, "I'm sorry for yelling at you," projecting the apology firmly at Ensign Bortrecht, even if she didn't quite make eye contact with him. Then she pivoted on one small foot to face the Captain, and Archer wasn't ashamed to say he backed up a fraction. "I'm sorry I interrupted your duties," she added, every syllable obviously painfully drawn from her throat.

"It's okay," Archer assured her automatically. "No harm done." Was it his imagination, or did a flicker of annoyance cross Lt. Reed's face? If the man was hoping Archer would chew the girl out, the Tactical Officer was just going to have to live with disappointment.

Miranda turned to look back at Malcolm and he gave her the slightest nod of approval before jerking his head to the side, indicating she could go. She took a step towards him and he gave her a _look_ , stopping her in her tracks, and she sadly trudged out the doors of the Armory, head hanging. Archer almost felt like giving her a hug himself, if he didn't think she would deck him for it.

"As you were, Ensign," Reed told Bortrecht, who knew what was good for him and hurried back to his duties with a crisp "yes, sir." Reed turned to Archer. "I've sent Miranda back to my quarters, sir. I apologize for the disturbance, I take full responsibility for it."

"It's okay, Malcolm," Archer assured him as they headed back to the Bridge. It was a slow day anyway. "What was all that about?"

Reed thought for a moment before replying. "I told her to do an inventory of the Armory equipment," he explained as they entered the lift. "She got to the weapons section faster than I anticipated. Apparently when Ensign Bortrecht hesitated to open the weapons locker for her she became... agitated."

"I guess so," Archer agreed dryly. "Do you think it's really wise to let her do things around the Armory?"

Reed's spine stiffened a bit. "She's very intelligent, sir," he remarked, and Archer could hear the strain in his voice as he tried to sound neutral. "She has difficulty articulating what she wants," he added, a bit more resigned. "She becomes frustrated." He looked the Captain in the eye. "I'll keep her under closer supervision, sir." Archer noticed he didn't promise it wouldn't happen again.

"It's okay, Malcolm," Archer tried to tell him, though he knew it wouldn't be much comfort to the man. "She didn't hurt anyone." This time. "I'm sure she'll learn to communicate better the longer she's here." Reed's expression said he wasn't certain he agreed with Archer on that one.

 

***

 

Because of Miranda's unusual rate of development, Phlox was keen to keep an eye on her and had advised that she see him monthly for a complete examination. Lt. Reed was sensitive to the idea of Miranda being studied 'like a bug;' but as Miranda herself didn't seem to find the exams uncomfortable or unpleasant in any way, he gave his consent.

Before the actual check-up Phlox liked to ask his patients a series of questions, to give him an idea of where to focus his attention in particular during the exam based on their answers about health problems or concerns they'd experienced recently. Miranda was no different, although her responses were invariably in the negative.

"Any headaches?"

"No."

"Fatigue?"

"No."

"Pain or soreness?"

"No."

"Difficulty sleeping?"

"No."

"Any intimate contact in the last month?"

There was a pause. Phlox looked up from his data pad, momentarily wondering if he needed to break out his diagrams and charts again for her.

"I think so."

"You aren't certain?" Maybe the diagrams _were_ necessary a second time.

Miranda thought a moment more, then nodded confidently. "I think so."

Professional detachment kept the doctor's expression neutral—however ill-advised he deemed intimate contact for Miranda at this point in her development, making her feel disapproved of would not be conducive to her giving him honest answers or receiving any treatment she might need. "I see. Perhaps I should ask Lt. Reed to join us--"

"I already told Malcolm about it," Miranda frowned.

"It was not Lt. Reed with whom you had... intimate contact?" asked Phlox, confused.

"No."

This next question was not strictly necessary for medical reasons, but if he had to report this incident to the Captain the information would certainly be required. "May I ask who, then?"

"Commander Tucker."

Phlox's professional detachment nearly deserted him. "Commander Tucker."

"Yes. Commander Tucker. He's Malcolm's friend."

"I see."

Phlox paused, digesting this information, and Miranda took it as displeasure. "Malcolm said it was okay." That was always the last word, in her opinion.

"Did he," the doctor remarked carefully.

"Yes. Malcolm said I should, because Commander Tucker would enjoy it." Phlox's eyebrows began creeping up his forehead. Fortunately Miranda was on the subject of things Malcolm had said and kept going cheerfully. "Malcolm said, otherwise Commander Tucker would have to do it by himself."

"Really. Hmm, and how did _you_ feel about this intimate contact with, er, Commander Tucker?" Phlox probed.

Miranda shrugged. "It was okay. It didn't hurt. It didn't take very long. And I didn't have to do very much," she added helpfully.

"Perhaps you should describe to me _exactly_ what happened," the doctor suggested.

"Okay," Miranda agreed. Then she stopped to think about it for a moment. "Malcolm was busy. He said I should go to the Mess Hall and have lunch without him." She seemed saddened by this part of the story. "So I went. By myself. Without Malcolm." She sighed. "Then Commander Tucker came into the Mess Hall."

"Go on," Phlox encouraged when she paused.

"He wanted to sit at my table and have lunch. He's Malcolm's friend." This seemed reason enough in Miranda's mind to tolerate him. Phlox was making an _extensive_ mental list of remarks he wanted to convey to Lt. Reed. Not to mention Commander Tucker.

"Then what happened?"

"He started talking. Malcolm doesn't talk as much as Commander Tucker."

"What did Commander Tucker talk about?" Phlox prompted gently, trying to steer her back on track.

"Food, and my bell, and Malcolm, and warp engines, and Malcolm..."

"And?" the doctor encouraged when she trailed off. Mentally he braced himself.

"He made me eat..." Phlox leaned forward. "...some of his chicken salad."

Phlox leaned back. "And then?"

"And then we left the Mess Hall."

"Where did you go?"

"I went back to the Armory, to Malcolm," Miranda told him dutifully.

"And where did Commander Tucker go?"

"I don't know," Miranda shrugged. "Not to the Armory."

Phlox paused, waiting for more. Miranda just blinked at him. "And when exactly did the intimate contact occur?" he asked, having missed something.

"I just said," Miranda insisted, becoming peeved. "During lunch, in the Mess Hall. When Malcolm wasn't there."

"You said you and Commander Tucker had a conversation," Phlox reminded her.

"Yes." She was definitely getting impatient. "Malcolm said it was okay."

"Did Commander Tucker touch you, or ask you to touch him?" the doctor queried, still confused.

"No," Miranda told him, frowning at the question as though it were completely out of place. "Why would he do that?"

Phlox sighed briefly but with some relief, he didn't mind admitting. "The conversation you had with Commander Tucker was the intimate contact," he surmised.

"Yes," Miranda agreed. "Malcolm wasn't there. I was by myself. Without Malcolm."

"Okay," Phlox decided, sincerely cheerful. "Let me get out some diagrams again..."

 

Lt. Reed and Commander Tucker were working in the phase cannon assembly room, which was a rather grand title for a glorified closet stuffed with sophisticated and dangerous hardware. It was really barely big enough for two people to work in, but Malcolm wasn't letting anyone near his phase cannons without him, and Trip wasn't letting anyone near a system that drew so much power from the engine assembly without _him_. Thus they usually ended up working on it together.

"Miranda had her monthly physical the other day," Reed began casually, crouching to the side to check a diagnostic run.

He was practically sitting on Trip's legs, as the engineer was stretched out trying to calibrate a phase coupler above his head. Trip glanced at Malcolm for a moment before returning to his work, thinking it an odd topic to bring up. "Everything alright?"

Malcolm shrugged. "There was something... strange."

Beginning to get a bit worried now, Trip pulled himself into a sitting position. "Oh?"

"It's a very... _complete_ examination," Malcolm clarified, giving Trip a look.

For a moment Trip didn't get it. Then he did. "Oh? _Ohhhhhh_." He cleared his throat. "Something... _strange_?"

"Yes." Malcolm sat on the floor across from Trip, a pensive expression on his face. "Apparently as part of the usual questions Phlox asks her if she's had any... intimate contact recently."

" _Miranda?_ " Trip asked incredulously.

"Well, it's good he asks, I suppose," Malcolm pointed out.

"I guess," Trip agreed. "But d—n, seems a little, I dunno, creepy. Creepy to think about. She even know what he means?"

Malcolm shrugged. "He has... diagrams, I guess." Trip shuddered a little at the thought. "Anyway, it was good that he asked this time... because she said she _had_."

This time Trip's jaw dropped. " _What?_ " He looked at Malcolm's enigmatic but serious expression. "G-d, Malcolm, what kind of a sick—" He paused. "Malcolm, you didn't—"

"No, of course not," his friend snapped, and Trip immediately felt relieved and a little guilty for even suggesting it. "How could you even think that?"

"Well, I wasn't _really_ , I just thought maybe—"

"Actually," Reed reported crisply, "she said the intimate contact was with _you_."

The engineer's mouth fell open in surprise. His eyes widened. His face flushed. Most telling of all, the hypospanner slipped from his fingers to clatter on the deck plating. "Malcolm, I—I would never—That's not—" Reed blinked at him, expectantly. Trip took a breath, trying to compose himself. "Malcolm, I would _never_ take advantage of Miranda like that—"

Reed laughed a bit mirthlessly. "Well, according to _her_ , _I_ said it was alright."

Trip didn't know whether to be reassured that Malcolm didn't think he'd actually _done_ anything to Miranda, or to continue being alarmed and disturbed by the whole story. " _What?_ "

"Because you would enjoy it," Malcolm continued, darkly. "And because otherwise you would have to do it alone."

"This is insane!" Trip protested, skin flushing again. "What's wrong with her?"

"You'll be pleased to know," Malcolm added dryly, "that it didn't hurt, it didn't take very long"—Trip's eyebrows shot up—"and _you_ did most of the work."

Trip opened and closed his mouth several times, rendered speechless for one of the few times in his life. "I—I—Is she... I don't know... hallucinating... or..." He didn't want to say _lying_ ; Miranda just didn't seem the devious type.

Suddenly Malcolm's rueful smirk grew into an uncharacteristic broad grin, which turned into a chuckle. "Wait a minute!" Trip demanded, livid. "Are you just messin' with me? Good G‑d, Malcolm, talk about _poor taste_ —"

"I'm not messing with you," Malcolm countered, eyes glinting with amusement. He was still laughing.

"Well, what the h—l then?" Trip snapped, distinctly irritated. I mean, there was a lot of latitude on jokes between good friends, but he kind of drew the line on accusations of sexual assault...

Malcolm could barely get it out, watching Trip sputter. "It's true," he insisted. "She actually said all this to Phlox."

"G-d, Malcolm—"

"Apparently she felt the lunch you two shared while I was busy with the EM emitter test counted as 'intimate contact,'" Malcolm finally explained. "That must have been a h—l of a chicken salad."

Trip went boneless with relief, slumping back against the wall. "G-------t, Malcolm!" He looked up suddenly. "She said all that to Phlox? _Before_ she explained herself?" Malcolm smirked, feeling the laughter building again. This time Trip joined in. "It's not really funny," he added, even as they continued snickering. "Phlox spends five minutes thinkin' we're colluding in child molestation. That shouldn't be funny at all."

"Yet somehow it is, isn't it?" Malcolm pointed out. "Don't mention it to her, though, I don't want to embarrass her."

A few moments later, when he'd caught his breath again, Trip asked, "Phlox straightened her out, right? About what _really_ counts?"

"Apparently he got the diagrams back out again," Malcolm assured him. Which, mature as they were, only set them off again.

At her seat in the Armory, Miranda looked up from her data pad and smiled. She liked it when Malcolm was happy. Even if she didn't always understand _why_.

 

***

 

"Start the relay sequence again," Reed told Archer, adjusting another group of settings on the Armory's core computer console. "When you get to relay J12, reroute the power flow through the EPS couplings."

Archer nodded briskly and started to comply. A few moments later he reported, "I'm getting a warning from the computer."

"Just ignore it, sir," Reed assured him, not turning around.

"Even if it says, 'Stop! Ask Malcolm!'?" Archer asked dryly. Reed paused and glanced over his shoulder sheepishly. "Getting a little egotistical, don't you think?" Archer commented, with some amusement.

"Sorry, sir," Reed apologized. "It's for Miranda. She ignores all the other warnings."

 

***

 

Malcolm stepped out of the bathroom, still drying his hair, and glanced over the clothes laid out on the bed for him. He accepted the dark trousers but declined the shirt. "I think I'll go with the green one today, Miranda," he mentioned off-hand, beginning to dress. Instead of the green shirt appearing on his bed, however, he saw only a small frowning blond. "Is that a problem?"

"Green is for Thursdays," she informed him tartly. "Blue is for Tuesdays!"

Yes, alright, the mental fashion show she replayed for him of the last few weeks showed he _had_ rather been in a rut in terms of clothing choices—at least part of which was due to _her_ selecting the clothes, and him really not caring. But d----t, tonight he wanted to wear green.

"Yes, well, it's not really a _rule_ , is it?" he pointed out. "Nothing is going to be hurt if I wear the green shirt instead."

He could feel the indecisiveness from her— _would_ something really be hurt, if he wore a different-colored shirt today? Was it worth the risk?

"Don't be so superstitious, Miranda!" he advised, heading for the closet himself. "It's just a shirt. Nothing vital hinges upon it."

But she'd gotten used to it. Blue on Tuesdays, green on Thursdays. Now he suddenly wanted to _change_. Maybe if he had mentioned it in advance, she could have prepared for it, but _right now_? No, it was too much.

"Look, Miranda, I know change is difficult for you sometimes, but—honestly, this is nothing. It doesn't even affect you in any way."

Mmmm… Not accepted. "No!" She snatched the green shirt from his hands and clutched to her—he'd have to wrestle it away from her if he really wanted it.

Blue, green—now Malcolm was seeing red. "Miranda! It's _my_ bloody shirt! Give it back to me _right now_!"

No. If it really didn't matter, he could just wear the blue one.

"Well it matters _now_ , because you've _made_ it matter! I'd feel bloody ridiculous not wearing _my own shirt_ just because _you_ think it's the wrong day!"

And him feeling slightly silly outweighed her misgivings about change?

"Everything changes in life, Miranda! You can't stop that just by restricting my clothing choices, you know." He glanced back at the closet. "Well suppose I just grabbed the _black_ shirt, then? Or the _grey_ one? Are you going to bar me from everything in the closet but that one, single blue shirt?"

She was contemplating it.

"Oh, bloody h—l!" The door chime sounded. "Come in!" Malcolm snapped, knowing who it was.

Trip stepped through the doorway and surveyed the scene with some amusement. His friend stood in the middle of the cabin, shirtless and obviously peeved, glaring down at Miranda who gripped a green piece of clothing tightly. "Not quite ready, huh?" he surmised cheerfully.

Malcolm shot him a dark look. "I'll be ready as soon as the Wardrobe Mistress releases my clothing," he told his friend, with ill humor. "Look, Commander Tucker's waiting for me. Now give it here—"

He reached for the green shirt and Miranda danced away, towards the closet. Blocking it, it appeared to Trip. "Hey, don't you usually wear that blue shirt on Tuesdays?" he offered idly, having no clue what was going on between them.

Malcolm rolled his eyes and let his shoulders sag in defeat. "Blue, blue, blue on Tuesdays!" Miranda sang triumphantly.

"Fine," Malcolm ground out, turning back to the shirt on the bed. He yanked it on so hard Trip winced on the shirt's behalf. "People think _I'm_ anal, it's the two of _you_ who can't accept change, I just want you to realize that—"

Miranda flew across the room and threw her arms around Malcolm as soon as he was dressed. "Blue on Malcolm," she sighed happily. It was such a little thing, wasn't it, and it made her so happy to see it. Perhaps, if he ever had a _reason_ to not wear blue on a Tuesday, maybe that would be okay, but if he really didn't care that much…

"Alright, alright," he told her, calming down a bit. "I just didn't realize how important it was to you, that's all."

"Malcolm is _best_ ," Miranda declared. Then she remembered to release him so he could actually, in fact, leave with Trip for Movie Night.

"Aw, isn't that sweet," Trip remarked pleasantly as they walked out the door.

"Shut up," Malcolm advised.

"Well, it _is_ a nice shirt," the engineer continued with a smirk.

 

***

 

The look on Reed's face when he pushed through the door to Sickbay and saw the Captain standing there conversing with the doctor clearly said he was rethinking the necessity of his visit. However, the sobbing young woman in his arms made a discreet about-face impossible.

"Um, sorry to interrupt, sir..." Malcolm said, as Phlox broke off mid-sentence and hurried to meet them. "Calm down, it's alright, it's alright," he whispered into Miranda's ear.

"What's wrong?" Archer asked with concern, noting that they were both dressed in workout gear.

"It's nothing, sir, really," the Tactical Officer minimized as the doctor turned his hand scanner pensively on Miranda.

Archer gave him a hard look. Miranda could usually rival T'Pol in terms of eerie, slightly disturbing calm; now she had her face buried in Reed's shoulder, one hand clutching his arm, crying so hard she was gasping for breath.

"Malcolm," the Captain warned.

"Just an accident, during practice, sir," Reed assured him, stroking Miranda's blond hair in an attempt to quiet her. "I'm sure it's not serious, sir. She's just—upset about it."

"Why don't we let the doctor decide if it's serious or not?" Archer suggested coolly. He would never imply that Lt. Reed abused Miranda in any way—but some of his "training" methods made the Captain a little uncomfortable. If Archer found out Reed had been doing something downright dangerous with her—

"Two broken fingers," Phlox announced, sounding slightly disappointed that it wasn't anything more interesting. "Painful, but hardly life-threatening." He smiled reassuringly and went to fetch some supplies.

"How did she break her fingers?" Archer queried, in a less demanding tone.

"It's not _hers_ that are broken, sir," Malcolm corrected, pulling the hand that had been hidden between he and Miranda out. His first two fingers were reddened and starting to swell. Archer stared at him, then at Miranda, then back. "We were practicing with the quarterstaffs, sir," Reed explained, "and we just slipped a bit. It wasn't her fault, sir."

Things were becoming clearer to the Captain. " _She_ broke _your_ fingers."

Malcolm looked affronted. "It _was_ just an accident, sir," he repeated.

"No, of course," Archer agreed quickly.

 

***

 

"Lookee there, you ate all your veggies," Trip commented approvingly to Miranda. "Guess you get to have dessert then."

She frowned at him across the table, staring hard for a moment. Trip waited patiently. Malcolm ignored them both, engrossed in the report he was reading.

"Dessert?" Miranda finally repeated, a slight question in her tone.

"Yeah, something sweet, a treat at the end of the meal," Trip clarified.

"Malcolm doesn't eat dessert," Miranda finally pointed out.

"Oh sure he does," Trip countered. "I've seen him eat dessert plenty of times. Ain't that right, Mal?"

The object of their speculation grunted distractedly. "Mmm, just a minute."

"I'll show you an example of dessert," Trip decided eagerly, needing little excuse to indulge his sweet tooth. He popped up from the table and headed over to the food shelves, returning a moment later with a dish. Miranda peered at the contents curiously. "This here is _ice cream_ ," Trip explained, taking a bite. "Mmm, mmmmmm… Sure is tasty. Want to try?"

"Ice cream," Miranda repeated noncommittally.

"Yeah, vanilla ice cream with caramel sauce," Trip expounded. "Here, try a bite." He scooped up a good spoonful of the soft, cold dairy product, liberally garnished with buttery caramel. He didn't want to hold it out too far, though, in case Miranda took a long time making up her mind and left him dripping all over the table. After a moment she acquiesced and accepted the treat. Trip watched her reaction eagerly. "Well? Good, huh?"

For a moment Miranda's face was blank. Then he could see her moving the food around in her mouth. Just when he thought it might be a hit, however, she scrunched up her face in an expression of distaste. No, not just distaste. Revulsion.

The noise she let out, right before spitting the ice cream out onto the table, was something between a wail and a moan, and certainly loud enough to draw stares from the rest of the Mess Hall. "STICKY!!" she shouted in outrage, in case there was anyone around who _hadn't_ yet heard her. "Sticky _bad_ , sticky sticky!"

Trip stared open-mouthed, unsure if he should call Sickbay or maybe Security. Of course the _head_ of security was sitting right there with them and finally looked up. "Miranda," Malcolm chided, dropping his napkin over the melting ice cream on the table. "You've made a mess!"

"Stiiiiiiiiccccckkkkkkyyyyyy," she whined pitiably to him.

"Drink this," Malcolm advised, sliding his mug of tea over to her. She gulped it greedily, cleansing her palate of the noxious texture, glaring at Trip all the while. "Miranda doesn't like sticky things," Malcolm added mildly to the engineer, paging through his report.

"No kiddin'," Trip agreed, keeping his ice cream firmly to himself.

 

***

 

It was a quiet day on the Bridge, no sound but the soothing drone of the engines, the occasional soft beeps from the computer panels, a sniff or sigh from the members of the Bridge crew. At least until—

"Shut up."

Archer looked up from the report he was perusing and glanced at his Tactical Officer, who was still gazing pensively at his own duty station. Wondering if he had begun hearing imaginary voices, Archer turned to T'Pol, who raised an eyebrow to indicate she had also heard the curious command in a British voice. That was good enough for the Captain.

"Lieutenant?" he queried. Reed looked up questioningly. "Did you say something?"

"Beg your pardon, sir," the man replied, not seeming particularly flustered to be caught. "I was speaking to Miranda."

"Oh." Archer was about to accept that when further brief inquisitive looks did not actually reveal the blond. "Is, um, Miranda… _here_?"

"No, sir," Reed answered promptly. "She's in the Armory, sir."

Okay. Well, if Lt. Reed didn't seem to think there was anything strange about speaking out loud to someone who wasn't even in the room—with no comm channel open—Archer wasn't going to question it. This time, anyway.

 

***

 

"Well, I don't see any guards," Trip reported, peering as far through the bars as he could.

"Surveillance equipment?" Malcolm asked from the other side of the cell.

"Nope," the engineer replied, squinting into the dim light. "I _think_ the Bridge is... that way," he added, nodding towards one end of the hall on the other side of the barred door.

It wasn't that Malcolm didn't trust Trip's assessment. It was just that _he_ was trained to look for such things, and being somewhat controlling, he wanted to see for himself. "Come here and hold her," he suggested. "I want to take a look."

Trip crouched down beside them but didn't necessarily move into the proper position. "How's she doing?"

"She'll be alright," Malcolm assured him. "Sit down."

"I don't know," Trip hesitated. "She doesn't like me very much. What if she wakes up?"

"She's not going to wake up for a while yet," Malcolm told him. "And she'll keep you warm."

The last bit was the final enticement for Trip. The cell was dark, dirty, and not especially temperate. They couldn't _quite_ see their breath, but it was close. The engineer settled down on the floor, back against the equally cold wall, and let Malcolm arrange Miranda in his arms. It was like holding a little heater.

"Geez, Malcolm!" he commented, slightly alarmed. He dug a hand out and touched her forehead with it. "She's burning up!"

Malcolm stood, less stiffly than Trip had thanks to his own personal warming device. "It's normal," he explained, sounding unconcerned. "It's how she heals."

Well, Trip couldn't say it wasn't preferable, to be sitting in an alien jail cell while _warm_ rather than while _cold_. Although somehow it still felt wrong to be using Miranda for warmth, when she was the most injured among them. While Trip gave this matter thought Malcolm did everything he had done a few minutes earlier, checking the door, looking for surveillance devices, and getting his bearings.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it ends kind of abruptly there.


End file.
